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Enter The Concurrence
'''Abandoned Warehouse ''A rusty, beatup warehouse somewhere near the docks of New York. Doesn't seem to be anything special on the outside. On the inside, though? Well, it's nothing special either. But there is a set of tables and steel chairs, all set up so that those seated can get a good view of the podium between them. To the side is a table with snacks on it and some tea. Dr. Arkeville is carrying a plate of delicious, delicious flan and contentedly eating it, which means he is not paying much attention to the fact that mysterious warehouses tend to have uneven floors. His heel catches a crack in the concrete floor, and he falls over, completely runining his plate of flan! Never before has such depair been seen on his face! Then, he realises his shorted out his leg cybernetics again, which is a minor issue comapred to the loss of the flan. With a resigned sigh, he rolls up the sleeve of his lab coat and pops open a panel on his arm. He pulls out an inflatable wheelchair and settles himself into it with a sigh. This place had *better* have ramps. Shawn Berger walks out of the tiny restroom in the warehouse. For a change he's not wearing the outdated business-man's suit that went out of style long before even his dad was sporting it. Instead, he's wearing a deep purple shirt under his blazer, and black quorduroy pants. Black is supposed to be a slimming color, but those properties are tested sorely by Berger. Berger walks out tentatively into the middle of the room, then checks his cellphone for text messages. Still nothing. It is possible to drink 12 litres of tea in a day without dying. I know this because Lord Chumley knows this. One of the walls of the room literally explodes in a shower of rubble and smoke as the figure of Lord Chumley comes in, silhouetted black against the fireworks that go off in his wake, his iron-lung exo suit clanking with every motion. "By jove!" he cries, adjusting his monocle as he looks around the room. "I do believe I have found a new prey - a small wingless insect of the order Siphonaptera. Namely, the flea! A cunning foe!" He points at the far corner of the room where a tiny little black dot is hopping along, and hoisting a large RPG launcher to his shoulder, sends out a blast that devastates that end of the room. He raises his field glasses. "Did I get it Dinsmoore, did I?" he chirps excitedly. "Mount its head and send it to that Redfield fellow, there's a good chap!" Two burly gentlemen stand at a doorway leading inside a battered warehouse somewhere in New York City. An old lady wanders up to them, and meekly asks, "Is Powerglide in there?" The guards look at each other, then at the woman. "Ms. Astoria. Please come inside." "But is Powerglide--" "Please come inside, ma'am." The old woman, once well-known as a beautiful heiress before age and madness claimed her, sighs and walks inside. Then, an odd man in a blue parka stops in front of the guards. The guards look at him, wide-eyed, but shrug and let him enter. "Geeze, the boss let THAT guy in?" one of them says. "Corporal Chill? Come on. He's almost as bad as the Angry Archer." For the record, the place does not have ramps, but it has amenable thugs who will carry you if needbe. Dinsmoore pushes a tea cart in behind the hole made by Lord Chumley. The cart has a squeaky wheel, but Dinsmoore doesn't seem to notice. "Yes sah," he says. "I shall put in an order immediately for a plaque to mount your new collection of flea, sah." Dinsmoore squints in the direction that the boss is indicating and says, "Yes sah. It has been got." Dinsmoore can't tell. His eyes aren't good enough. So he shuffles over and picks up a piece of lint on the ground instead. Lord Chumley will never know the difference. Putting the lint-flea in a drawer on the tea cart, Dinsmoore pushes it towards the others. The limousine that pulls up bearing forged diplomatic plates is more -- much more -- than meets the eye. This is because it contains Abdul Fakkadi, Supreme Military Commander, President-for-Life, and King of Kings of the Socialist Democratic Federated Republic of Carbombya. The President exits, dusting off his military uniform with a grunt. A hint of grey has crept into his beard, and the uniform doesn't quite fit as well over the paunch he's collected in his time in bedlam, but he still remains every bit as much the insane racial stereotype he was in the heyday of the zero-zeroes. "Hmph," he snorts, putting on a pair of large 1980s sunglasses. Behind him, clad in full burqas, his two latest wives scuttle a minimum of fifty paces behind his. They carry large baskets. "HELLO, IMPERIALIST DOGS!" Fakkadi calls, thrusting his arms out. "I HAVE BROUGHT FRUITCAKE TO CELEBRATE YOUR INSIPID AMERICAN CAPITALIST MONEY-GUZZLING HOLIDAY!" In Carbombya, all holidays save for Fakkadi Glorious Liberation Day have been banned, and that day is /every day/. Oh good, because if the thugs weren't amenable, Dr. Arkeville has always been a huge fan of mind control. In fact, he looks at the thugs speculatively, wondering just how much of their brains he could remove and replace with styrofoam while still leaving them as fully functioning human beings. The technical answer? Rather a lot. He sniffs disdainfully, seeing the baskets of fruitcake, "Not flan?" Shawn Berger has been drifting casually over to the snacks table all this time. He turns and gapes at the Lord Chumley's explosive entrance. But by then he's within reach of the table filled with snacks and drinks. Shawn quickly and efficiently stacks a bit of every kind of snack on his little plate, while at the same time ending up with a large drink. Say what you want about Berger, but he really knows how to work a snacks table! Before he can even start to dig in though, he hears Fakkadi's entrance. "Fruitcake?" he repeats in a low voice. "Yes," Fakkadi says, with a suitable tone of digust in his loud, shrill voice. "Do you infidels not eat fattening American treats at the end of October, to venerate your fear of your pitiful, knock-kneed, vomitous caricature of Allah who is Mighty and Knows All?" Chumley takes a seat, rocking back and forth and sipping at a vat of tea. "I say Dinsmoore, this reminds me of the Boar War. Do you remember that? When we tied all those grenades to the boars and shot them." He then looks up with a start at Abdul. "Aha that sand man is here, jolly good!" He claps his hands and places a model of a ladder and a bucket on the table. "Here Abdul look at this. My latest trap for this devilish Transformers." He takes out a model of Starscream and dances it about. "See, he will look at the delicious cup of bovril suspended above the ladder and climb up. But then he will fall into the bucket and be trapped forever!" He throws the Starscream toy into the bucket and laughs Compton Xabat at last appears, though not with quite the smug, triumphant strut that he was planning on, but rather, a rather brisk run as he hears explosions. As soon as he catches sight of Chumley, however, it all clicks, and he simply says, "Oh." Clapping his hands together loudly, he says, "Greetings, my friends! I am glad you could come. I hope that readjusting to life outside of the Asylum hasn't been difficult for any of--" He glances at Astoria, who is tugging at his shirt. "Hm?" "Where's Powerglide?" she asks. "Oh," Xabat says. "Well, he's not here, but! I have something almost as good!" A thug hands him a Powerglide Plushie Doll, and Xabat hands this over to Astoria, who greedily snatches it. She hugs the Plushie, making little squee noises. "Ahem," Xabat says. "As I was saying, thank you for coming. Please, enjoy of our refreshments before I begin my proposal, which I am sure will be of interest to all of you!" Shawn Berger says with his mouth full, "You've already got my interest, Mr. Xabat..." Dr. Arkeville lifts his head up and steeples his fingers, insisting, "Scientifically speaking, there is no reason to fear ghosts, as they do not exist, and thereby, Halloween is an obsolete tradition." Really, his mother just never let him go trick or treating, afraid that he might succumb to the rash of apples with razors in them that his neighbourhood always had. Little did she know, but the razors were all his own fault. He moved up to mind control Hershey bars in middle school. He wheels over to the snack bar, looking to spike the punch with psychoactive chemicals. The thugs give Arkeville quite a bit of breathing space. The Doctor doesn't have a good reputation with the Thugs' Guild. "It was a very short war, sah," Dinsmoore replies. Having taken care of flea, Dinsmoore begins pouring cups of tea. He hands a full teacup and saucer to each member here, starting with Lord Chumley. He then moves onto Compton, Shawn, the good doctor, Astoria, Fakkadi, and both of Fakkadi's latest wives. The manservant smiles at the second of Fakkadi's wives, giving her a wink. "That will NEVER work, Chumley, you fat-headed greedy burgeois scum!" Abdul Fakkadi slap the bovril away, and reaches into his pocket to pull out a mushed, moldy falafel that has apparently been in there the entire time his uniform was in storage. "There! NOW there is a tempting feast fit for the true inheritors of the earth, the selfless and vengeful Socialist feyadeen!" When Xabat enters, Fakkadi turns to face him, smoothing the front of his uniform. "Mister Xabat, I trust your proposal will RECTIFY the ILLEGAL IMPRISONMENT of my royal and beloved personage within an AMERICAN mental institution, in clear violation of international statutes which the United States and the EDC violated in conspiracy with that /damnable/ United Nations!" Chumley nods and then leans in to Abdul. "Abdul old chap, I have something I think you may be interested in. Something I hunted deep in the desert. Behold!" He takes out a bag and opens it, revealing a wooden plaque covered in sand. The sand spills everywhere. On the plaque is written "SAND" Dinsmoore spent hours upon hours mounting that sand. After making sure that everyone in the room has tea, including the various thugs, Dinsmoore returns to his tea cart, where he puts the pot back on top and draws out a pink feather duster from one of the drawers. Shuffling quietly, the servant begins to dust Dr. Arkeville's cyborg form. Shawn Berger finishes off his plate, washes it down with some tea, washes that down with some Pepsi (not Diet, because it 'just doesn't taste the same'), then finally leaves his empty plate on the corner of table instead of throwing it away in the trash can that's sitting /right next to it/. His evil villainy credentials thus reinforced, Shawn walks over to Xabat. "Aww, forget about Arkham. (hey come on, you gotta admit, the spaghetti was good). I wanna know how I'm supposed to get my land back! Those lousy squatters, the Autobots have moved away, but the government /still/ won't let me rebuild the Berger family estates..." He trails off, then produces his cellphone again. "And do any of you know if Megatron's phone number has changed? I don't know if my text messages are going through..." Dr. Arkeville moodily takes the tea and stares down into it dourly. Opening another panel on his arm, he withdraws a portable chemistry and checks the tea for poison. He looks up at DInsmoore, who is dusting him, and he snaps, "Do you mind?" Because the good doctor is really good with minds, you see, and if Dinsmoore doesn't, the doctor can fix that quite tidily. He stares over at Berger, and he thinks that he can feel his IQ lowering as he sits here. "You must sneak up on your land Mr Berger!" Lord Chumley exclaims. "Treat it like a wild animal, and when it stops moving, you SHOOT AND MOUNT IT!" He thumps his fist on the table excitedly, before tucking into a big plate of twiglets. "I remember in the Sudan when we wanted the land of all the native folks. We just gave them some plague blankets, why don't you do the same?" "I am just glad my country has been well taken care of... by my /nephew/, LEO!" Fakkadi squalls. He then takes out his wallet and passes it around; one of the pictures is of a much younger Abdul with a boy wearing a kid-sized Fila tracksuit. Compton Xabat smiles and nods at Berger. "Excellent, my friend. Ah... let's just say, Mr. Berger, that if you follow my proposal, you won't need the Decepticons anymore. Oh no. The American government will see things your way. It will have to." He leans in and whispers, "Megatron is Galvatron, didn't you know?" As Fakkadi addresses him, Xabat's smile turns wicked. "Hahaha, yes, they really overstepped their boundaries that time! And they left you in there for weeks, and why? Because they couldn't fill out the paperwork fast enough. But you and I know the real reason! They wanted you out of the way, so that they could justify an invasion of your country, and steal your oil, which is the finest in the world! But they have failed to defeat you, Excellency. And soon you will have your revenge!" "No sah," Dinsmoore wheezes in reply to Dr. Arkeville. "It is my pleasure, I assure you." He resumes dusting the good doctor, making sure to get into all the various nooks and crannies that cybernetic armours tend to have. Upon reaching a smudge, Dinsmoore frowns and shuffles back towards the tea cart in order to fetch the lemon scented Pledge. When the picture of Abdul's nephew comes around to him, Dinsmoore just quickly passes it over to Lord Chumley. Elsewhere, Corporal Chill is trying the punch. He sips it, decides it's a little warm, then zaps it with his freeze gun on a low setting. He tries it again, mmms pleasantly, and downs it. Chumley strokes his moustache. "So Xabat old bean, what have you got in mind. And does your plan involve this Bean Magnet which I have invented?" He takes out a large magnet which he waves over the table, inexplicably causing a plate of beans to fly towards it. "I use it to hunt beans" he explains. "And to taunt the natives who rely on them for food." "THE CAPITALISTS WILL /NEVER/ HAVE MY OIL!" Fakkadi screams, upturning a fruitcake in rage. It thunks against the floor. "Mmmm that reminds me" Chumley nods. "Dinsmoore, it is time for my oiling. Oil me!" Dr. Arkeville watches Corporal Chill closely, look to see if his... modifications to the punch are having any effect. The Bean Magnet draws a raised, bushy white eyebrow from the mad scientist, who was never quite *that* mad with his science. At the very least, Dinsmoore will be distracted away from that abominable pledge for the time being. He suggests, "Perhaps we should exploit the internet with self-opening e-mails that contain a mind control trigger, thereby rendering the Transformers who recieve these e-mails our docile slaves." Those fools, giving out fanmail e-mails addresses to the humans! They shall rue the day. "No Arkeville!" Chumley shakes his head. "I vote we take over the world's telegram system. That will bring civilisation to its knees!" Dinsmoore had been rooting around for the lemon scented Pledge when the order comes in for Lord Chumley's oiling, thus saving Dr. Arkeville. "Of course, sah," Dinsmoore says. He closes the drawer he was looking in and opens another. While he might have misplaced the Pledge, he knows exactly where the oil is. He shuffles back over to Lord Chumley with the oil can. It looks like the oil can from the Wizard of Oz. Much in the same way as that movie, Dinsmoore oils his master up. Compton Xabat smiles at Fakkadi's reaction. "And they won't, Excellency. And I will help you protect what is yours!" Xabat then shrugs at Arkeville. "Hm, I'm not sure if they receive emails directly into their brains. But I'm sure you could look into it, my friend." Little does he know that this is, in fact, Galvatron's weakness. If he did, oh boy, his reaction to Arkeville's proposal would be very different. Nodding to Chumley, he says, "As you wish. Now, everyone, if you would please take your seats, I will begin my proposal. Er, it might involve beans, yes. Possibly." He walks over to the podium as a pair of thugs sets up a projector and a screen. On the tables are various nameplates for the assorted guests, denoting where they should sit. Astoria wanders around the entire setup until she finally finds her seat, and sits down in it, clutching her Powerglide plushie doll. Chumley sits in his seat, and places his feet upon the seat reserved for Dinsmoore. "Now, this reminds me of the Crimean!" he chortles. "Oh, when we hunted all those tourists, such japes." He turns to Abdul. "I imagine all this is quite exciting for you, old chap." He points at Abdul's chair. "This is called a Chair. /CHAIR/. We don't sit on the floor of mud huts here!" Shawn Berger has been taking a few minutes to puzzle through the whole 'Megatron is Galvatron' thing. He's even talking out loud. "Wait...I thought they were the same person too, but then for a while they were both around at the same time. They were both on the same TV show! But nowadays you only hear about Galvatron..." He's practically unaware of the conversation continuing around him. Maybe this is where that whole 'clueless' reputation of Berger's comes from. He finally notices when others start taking seats, and he rushes over and takes his own seat, wondering how much he missed but watching the others so he can pretend he's following what's going on. Man, this is just like undergrad... Dr. Arkeville just wheels over to the chairs, obviously not needing one. He sputters, "But the telegram went out of use *ages* ago! I... oh. Nevermind." He raises a robotic hand to his forehead, making a mental note to construct a migraine ray, so that others can suffer his pain. Fakkadi sneers at Chumley as he takes his seat. "We have chairs in the glorious Socialist Federated Republic of Carbombya, you infidel! All men, great and small, have chairs, the chairs that are their Allah-given right, so long as they are not /CAPITALISTS/ or /FANATICS/ or /INTELLECTUALS/!" Fakkadi then leans back in his chair smugly, but tips too far back and falls over. His wives help him up. Dinsmoore doesn't seem to have a use for the seat anywhere. Having finished oiling Lord Chumley, Dinsmoore returns to the tea cart, where he begins preparing a meal consisting of Fish and Chips, scones, Yorkshire pudding, bangers and mash, and some Cheshire cheese. Chumley waves a migrane-ray at the back of Dr Arkeville as he continues to talk to Abdul. "I imagine you're excited about this hunt old boy. Maybe we can hunt something together eh? Maybe we can put on our hunting gear and go out like the strapping chaps we are, and then afterwards we can have a bath and get on with our mounting. What do you say?" Compton Xabat frowns for a moment as he takes the podium, feeling for a moment that he is not in the company of merciless criminals and vagabonds, but rather, that he is the teacher in a classroom full of rowdy children. Nevertheless, he takes a moment to sip the tea Dinsmoore was generous enough to offer them, then affixes a "Hi, my name is COMPTON XABAT" sticker on his shirt. which then says, "Alright then, before I start, let's all introduce ourselves formally, shall we? Astoria, let's start with you, my dear. Tell us a little about yourself and what you want." Astoria says, "I'm Astoria Carlton-Ritz. I'm the owner of Hybrid Technologies, and I... I just want to be with Powerglide... forever. And *ever*." She hugs her plushie closer to her body. The little doll looks crushed in her grip, perhaps suggesting this old woman is stronger than she looks. Xabat continues. "Next we have..." "CORPORAL CHILLLLLL!" says the parka-wearing villain, and he stands up and fires his freeze ray at an overhead light fixture. It freezes up, and the bulb shatters instantly. Thankfully there's plenty of other sources of lighting in here, but Xabat is still not pleased. "Ah, thank you Corporal. Please don't do that again. Next, we have..." Lord Chumley gives an authorative nod. "Lord Chumley, world famous hunter, philosopher, inventor, Lord, and leader of this rag-tag team" "/I/," Abdul Fakkadi begins, "am ABDUL FAKKADI, Supreme Military Commander, President-for-Life, and King of Kings of the Socialist Democratic Federated Republic of CARBOMBYA, VC, DSO, MC, Lord of All the Beasts of the Earth and Fishes of the Seas and Conqueror of the British Empire in the Chosen Arab Nations of Allah in General and Carbombya in Particular!" Chumley then turns his attention to a monitor showing Jayson Redfield's house and sighs Compton Xabat smirks a bit. He thought Chumley might like that video feed. Dr. Arkeville looks at his robotic fingers and announces disdainfully, "Dr. Arkeville, Ph.D, MD, professor emeritus at Transylvania Polygnostic University." He then coughs and adds pointedly, "Freelance consultant." Shawn Berger jumps slightly in his seat. "Am I next? Okay...I'm Shawn Berger, Jr. My father was Shawn Berger. Uh, Sr." He hurries on, getting a little flustered at his own akwardness. "I've still got most of the family fortune, I'm just trying to get my land back. Although /maybe/..." he scowls slightly, starting to sound a little indignant, and maybe just a little ruthless. "Maybe I wouldn't be against getting a little -extra- land. As interest. And for all my troubles." Just like that, his menacing moment is over. "Oh, and I suppose it would be nice to get to know some of those Decepticons better. They seem pretty cool. Not like those Autobots. Bunch of mechanical menaces!" Compton Xabat eyes Dinsmoore, wondering if he's going to introduce himself. Nope. Dinsmoore isn't even paying attention, and doesn't bother to introduce himself. It looks like he hasn't even heard anyone else. He's still busying himself with preparing the super British meals for everyone. "Did anyone need more tea?" he suddenly remembers to inquire. Chumley peers at the feed, pressing some buttons to make a beam light shine in the window of Jayson's bathroom. "HMMMM" he mutters Compton Xabat's lips form a narrow line, then he says, "Ahem, thank you, Dinsmoore, I'm... still finishing this cup." He holds it up, smiling awkwardly. "Now, myself, I am Compton Xabat. As you may know, I am, according to some, a "notorious researcher," supposed "war criminal," and even "terrorist." But the truth is, I simply want a world without Transformers. Is that so wrong?" He pauses for emphasis, then continues. "Lights, please." "Corporal CHILLLLLL!" cries the parka-sporting villain again, and he zaps several more lights in the warehouse, causing them to shatter as well. The warehouse is now dark enough for film viewing. "...thank you, Corporal," Xabat says dryly. "Anyway...." He clicks on a gyromouse, and the projector displays a picture of the Protectorate logo--the planet Earth with two swords behind it. "Not so long ago, I joined a military organization devoted to ridding the world of the Cybertronian invaders. Despite their massive military machine and legions of willing soldiers, however, they had no idea what they were really up against. They were crushed." He clicks the gyromouse again, showing a picture of Trypticon razing P'yongyang. "Clearly, direct military confrontation with the Autobots and Decepticons is not an option. What we need, to free our planet, is not brute force, but cunning, subtlety... and a little FEAR...." Meanwhile, on the monitor, some dashing young fellow walks into view of the camera and makes a rude gesture. Compton Xabat clicks the gyromouse again, and the next slide shows a Transformer being dissected by technicians. "We must steal the secrets of their technology." Another click, and the next slide reveals EDC personnel in uniform surrounded by men with guns, and looking very frightened. "We must destroy their allies." Another click, this time showing the UN Plaza. "And we must go to the highest levels of office, and force them to restore justice to their world! But I cannot do this task alone! I need your help." "Consider, carefully, what's in it for you. Dr. Arkeville, think of what you could learn from the robots once they are at our mercy! Lord Chumley, think of all the trophies you will collect! President Fakkadi, you won't have to worry about the EDC invading your land and illegally arresting you anymore! Berger, you can indeed get your land back... and so much more! Astoria, you could really be with Powerglide, like you always wanted. And Dinsmoore... eh..." He looks at the butler. "I'm sure Lord Chumley will enjoy your support. What say you, gentlemen? If you join me, we can rid the world of these metal monsters AND benefit greatly from it at the same time. Will you join me? Believe me, you will reap rewards beyond your imagining!" Dr. Arkeville rubs his chin and remarks, "I see. I, too, have had some... difficulties in my dealings with those overgrown wind-up toys. My research could proceed unimpeded if not for their meddling." Okay, it's more like he's the meddling one. Pot, kettle, black. "We simply need to introduce a fear toxin effective on Transformers into the water supplies of Metroplex and New Crystal City and then heat Metroplex and New Crystal City until the water vapourises, causing the now gaseous fear toxin to be uptaken by the Transformers." Chumley turns away from the monitor, a tear in his eyes, and then squints at the screen. "I say Mr Xabat!" he exclaims. "Your slideshow just says the words "BAD WOLF" over and over again on it." He stares at a piece of paper in his hand. "As does my shopping list." And then he opens his coat to look at the label. "Aaaaa!" Corporal Chill appears to be a little spaced out, and doesn't seem to notice that Xabat didn't ask him what he wanted. Dr. Arkeville hides his Bad Wolfication-ray. Dinsmoore finishes preparing the meals for everyone. It feels like it took half an hour or so. Slowly but steadily, Dinsmoore serves the insanely British food to each of the members of the evil council, including any wives and thugs of said members of said evil council. Shawn Berger takes some tea. He's not really a huge fan, he just has trouble turning down free food or beverages when they're offered. He seems to relax considerably when the lights dim, immediately slouching freely in his chair and looking around at the other villains without paying attention to the presentation. Yep, just like undergrad. But when Compton starts talking about fear, he looks up again. He blurts something out, trying to make it look like he's been paying attention. "But what could those Autobots and Decepticons be afraid of?" Then he sits back again, hoping that wasn't covered just a few slides back. The thugs evilly chew their food as they do their best to continue looking mean. Fakkadi laces his fingers, grinning dopishly. "Yes... a world without an EDC..." This is not at all what Xabat promised. He looks over at Chumley. "You opium-addled English pontoon! This is why Carbombya is great, and your piddly island is doomed to sink at the hands of irascible, merciful Allah!" "Pffft!" Chumley looks up from his ramblings. "Allah was British, everyone knows that!" Compton Xabat grins. "That's the spirit, Doctor. Still, they don't HAVE to breathe. You would have to figure out how to either get this fear gas into them before they know what is happening and simply stop breathing, or find a way to force them to keep breathing no matter what. Still, I have always been an admirer of your work, Dr. Arkeville, and I would be delighted to assist you in any way." Seriously, Xabat has a poster of Dr. Arkeville in his room. Turning to Berger, Xabat says, "They will learn to fear us, Mr. Berger. No, they don't think much of us puny little "flesh creatures," not yet. But we will show them how wrong they are about us. We may be smaller than them but we are more clever, and whatever technological advantage they have, we can simply steal it and turn it against them." Xabat then looks at Chumley, and blinks, hard. "Er... I'm... not sure I follow." The words "BAD WOLF" appear on the live Jayson-cam for a split second. Or do they? Dr. Arkeville pokes at the insanely British food with a fork that pops out of one of his robotic fingers. He wonders if this food has actually achieved a new stage of matter known as Condensed Englishium and if it can be used as a form of reaction mass. He points out, "Normal EMPs are virtually useless against Transformers, and most normal forms of rust do little to no damage to them. It takes more potent forms, such as Cosmic Rust, to really give them cause for worry or mechanical diseases such as Scraplets." Dinsmoore finishes serving everyone and returns to the tea cart. Reaching into the lower compartment he brings out a compact vacuum and begins vacuuming the warehouse. Shawn Berger strokes his goatee in thought...or at least that's what it looks like he's doing. It comes across more like it's itchy and he's scratching. "So what you're saying is...you want to get rid of the Autobots /AND/ the Decepticons?" He looks at his cellphone, where he's still got the contact labelled 'megatron-home' open and the option 'Delete? Y/N' on the screen. With a grim look, he pushes the 'Y'. Then he looks back up at Compton. "I'm with you! It'll be great! Just like Survivor season 57!! Total blindside!" "Yes yes I agree" Chumley nods as he stares at the monitor screen in horror, a crumpet falling down his shirt. "Now, I just need to get something from my car..." he mutters, backing away from the group. Dinsmoore gets out the handheld attachment and vacuums Lord Chumley as he discusses his evil plans with the others. "I knew it," Fakkadi mutters. "Englishmen! All talk, but when it comes down to it, they are still just cowardly Zionists!" Dinsmoore follows Lord Chumley with the vacuum. The extension cord isn't going to be long enough to reach all the way to the car, though. Dr. Arkeville retracts the fork and steeples his fingers, narrowing his gaze. "Removing the Transformer variable from Earth would be most favourable. I'll be available for consulting." Astoria suddenly yells, "Yes, I'll go with you Mr. Xabat, just so long as you spare Powerglide! I... I don't care about the others anymore!" "Very good!" Xabat says, grinning. "If we are all in agreement, then I would like to announce the formation of an alliance between us all. No, I do not appoint myself as your leader. I would not presume to lead you, gentlemen. We can all lead ourselves. But, as members of THE CONCURRENCE--" Dun dun dunnnn! "--we can pool our resources and work towards mutual goals! And one day, one day soon, we will make the robots pay for everything they have done!" He raises a fist into the air triumphantly. "Thank your hearing my proposal, gentlemen." Compton Xabat thinks for a moment, and realizes his English is still a bit off. Oops. "Hear hear!" Chumley claps as he climbs into a red white and blue tank that somehow is in the room. "I'm all for the current, well done Xabat old chap. Now I'm going to shoot some Apples. Come Dinsmore!" The tank trundles off to adventures new Dinsmoore continues to vacuum Lord Chumley up until the cord stretches out, unable to reach any further. Dinsmoore keeps going, however, and the plug is yanked out of the outlet. Dinsmoore continues to vacuum his master even though there's no power to the device. "Yes sah." The tea cart remains. There are plenty more back at the hunting chalet. Poor old Corporal Chill appears to have passed out, face first on his table, and is drooling a bit. Clank, clank, clank. That is the sound of one Dr. Arkeville clapping. "Very well. This should be interesting, if nothing else." He then moves to wheel himself out of the warehouse. Shawn Berger leaps up and throws a fist in the air too, ready to hoot and shout like he's at a baseball game...then noticing the more restrained reactions of his fellow villains, he lowers his arm and nods. "Uh...yeah, you can count me in! Now I've got to go print up some Berger Mansion stationary that reads 'Outskirts of San Fransico' again!!"